Echo, Echo
by DeepBlueInk
Summary: Game rules: Heroes don't work together. If they did, Arthur would've relaxed a moment and Alfred could've screwed up the courage to be one. Hate, though, brings them around to everything... DISCONTINUED.
1. Circles

Dead and sick. Always the same two things, every time he was snatched and crammed into a place Not London and Not Now.

The half sheet of newspaper pinned on the red dome reads "Whilni". Perhaps it was the name of this world. It has been only an hour or two since he has traveled to this one. As he trudges through the sticky mire of what he assumes were the streets of the blackened city, a fire-haired urchin dashes by, her skin tinged grey with disease. Black-eyed, with dusty green skin, the girl could not be any older than Peter back home; and yet she shrieks like a siren, dribbles from her bulging eyes and thin lips, and races faster than Arthur's younger brother could ever have.

The urchin does not even spare a glance at the man, a fit stranger strolling so casually through the remains of her city. Arthur watches her run past the looming ruins, clamber over a what used to be a thin glass roof, and fall down into the unknown beyond his sight.

Deeming a chunk of rubble stable enough to settle down on is difficult, considering most of the buildings are either liable or collapse or capable of incinerating his buttocks. Thankfully, upon inspection, Arthur finds most of the fallen concrete statues are cool enough to sit upon and quickly squats down on a fat-faced bust. It is only then that he allows himself an eyeful of the universe he has landed in.

A twilight glittering with embers, and a whole lot of gray-faced corpses.

"Wonderful," Arthur murmurs. His eyes shutter half green in the low light, and by dusk, darken black and blind to the night. For a moment, Arthur contemplates taking a brief kip on the poor fat man's belly, then snorts and continues to lean his elbows upon his knees. There was no way he could sleep, ever. He couldn't feel tired.

{Tomorrow, I will see the city die.}

And, before that, he will meet the freaking American crazy, the insane political leader that flips the switch, most commonly an idiot assassin, or some nonsensical fool that galavanted about planting ideas and spreading plague. The same one he has encountered numerous times, with that high violinist's string of a laugh, a face shining hot with madness, and bright eyes Arthur uneasily suspects are far less mad than the American is himself.

{Scared}, Arthur thinks bitterly.

They're all the same.

* * *

In this world a day after, a man breathes in surprise to find himself still Alfred. He has not seen the other interloper, so he suspects the role he plays in this place has not yet come into play. For the moment.

Alfred inhales another breath, excited at his own control. Perhaps, if he could keep his evil away a little longer, he won't have to destroy after all. He grins at this, stretches his arms out like wings as he bounces on the heels of his feet. God, if he could stay free like this.

Free.

As he stands with his toothy grin to the sun, a boy secretary of the empress slips into the freezing little office room. All of a sudden Alfred's not-voice catches up in his throat, and as a slender arm raises from his side to smoothly lace out a command, Alfred F. Jones feels the smile slide off his face and crease back into the woman's slight leer. Frantically, he tries to put up a wall around her thorny mind; but as usual, the angry spines lash him away to the back of Her will, shouting for her to _**stop her madness and get the hell on out of his soul and if they are all dead by tomorrow I will kill **_**you **until she smothers him.

"What is the matter, Empress?" Liam inquires politely. Lira smoothes back her flawless bangs and smiles at him as she carefully tucks them back. Her eyes shine satin green, like a cat's: hungry, incontinent.

"You haven't killed them yet, dear."

Swathed tight in the freezing dark, Alfred has little thought left to wonder. His mind weighs down on him. It feels like a paring knife scratching away at the edges, fringing them to tatters. He is tired and weary and can only ask himself if he and the other player will ever stop in the endless circle, chasing each other round and round, trying uselessly to stop each other in their cursed cycle of death and reincarnation.

"Maybe we could win," Kirkland hisses quietly, "if you only tried for once to stop your Host."

{What did _he_ know}, Alfred thinks bitterly, rubbing at his wrists. {At least he's_ free_.}

{I hate him}, he decides. {More than anything, or anyone.}

They're all the same.

* * *

_Caterpillar, wiggling tight_

_Bunching in in reams of fright_

_Striking out to move far on_

_And useless tarrying_

_countenance drawn_

_Mad in a shell of_

_Nightmares_

_- Wrapped in Dreams _by_ Anonymous_

_

* * *

_

_Tyger! Tyger! burning bright_

_In the forests of the night_

_What immortal hand or eye_

_Could frame thy fearful symmetry?_

_- The Tyger_ by _William Blake_

_

* * *

_

**Author's Note**:

It turns out I accidentally posted the unedited version of this chapter, so sorry about that! I'm working on the next chapter; so those of you who liked the first chapter _Echo Echo_ will hopefully be able to read the next one soon. As for _Desert Sun_, I still don't know if I'll be continuing it…maybe when I find out how I want the storyline to go. Thanks for reading, reviewing, alerting, and favoriting; I hope to see you until the very end.


	2. Are Mad

After a while, Alfred forgets where he is. Damn. It's cold. Strangely, he can feel the edges of where the cold touches his skin numb, and he thinks he should be worried, but it feels alright to leave it as it is. It isn't so bad. He can't feel his legs anymore, but it's alright. He isn't cold anymore, so everything is just fine and peachy.

He can remember Mattie; someone who is maybe his brother. Maybe. His spine tingles. His brother? His stepbrother? What did he look like? All Alfred recalls is Matt's frigid expression, blue and wrinkling at the fingertips, and that he loves hockey and hates Alfred. He can't feel. He can't remember.

His thoughts can't move; the nothingness replaces Mattie's cold, and it's somewhat comforting to not sense anything in particular. Nothing feels extreme, like Mattie does. No black, no white, or ice. Just content and quiet.

He feels this should bother him. As if, somehow, he was supposed to be kicking and screaming and jumping up and down in protest, maybe. He should be bursting with something, instead of soaking in the Nothing, maybe, and desperation soon fastens onto his skin searching for the Something. Kirkland's image pops up, which he proceeds to shrug off in disgust. He didn't want that. Even Nothing is better than that. Then, for some odd reason, he feels a burning tendril its way into his brain; his chest, and his shoulders.

Hate.

Tightness arches his shoulders, and to his surprise, screws his face up too. The tenseness grips his mind, the iciness burns hot, and suddenly he's back in the Genjun emperor's death ring, burning, jumping back into the middle of the warm circle. He grins at the despairing smear that runs across Kirkland's face and smashes the king's neck, roaring at the sight of blood as Kirkland swiftly leaps up to slit his throat.

Alfred realizes, as the Englishman's curved sword sweeps into the air, catching the sun and holding a second ringing there, that he cannot lose. Not while he can still breathe, thick and heavy air roughing hot through his throat, and now when this game has suddenly gotten much easier.

There is no way he would

Lose this way

to that British prick.

_Finally_, he hears someone say. "_Finally finally finally_, I'm going to win!" There's something annoying struggling beneath his fingers, so he promptly crushes it to the ground.

And Kirkland stills.

* * *

I

Woke

To

The Sound

Of You

* * *

I Wake

To The Sound

Of Him

* * *

I Woke Up

To

The Sound of

Them

* * *

I'm Awake

To the

Sound

of

Me.

- On a piece of paper I found on the floor titled 'Blah.'

* * *

"Life makes me hate," they said.

"And you make life hate," I replied.

- my Friend's words


	3. When You Repeat

Light. He wants light. Though Lotting's darkness has little light itself, the shadows hold no dice to the swaddling cotton wrapping around his head. Confounded and disoriented. Weird how they could surface now, when he can't remember the last time he used them correctly on an essay. He recalls throwing one, something about the human mind, out his apartment window. At least, he thinks it was an apartment. A nice condo, maybe.

Why can't he remember? What does he remember? Was he twenty-one or nineteen? How old is he now? His name-Alfred F. Jones, the awesome, brother or stepbro or perhaps even cousin twice-removed to a Canadian named Mattie. He's recites Mattie's favorite hobbies, skill with pancakes, and the fact that he once turned Alfred's favorite t-shirt pink in the wash. Then the other guy: Kirkland. Shorter than him by a head, sandy blond hair, caterpillar eyebrows, acid-colored eyes, and a sizzling voice to match. Undeniably English.

And finally, this person.

Fourteen; a bit shorter than Kirkland, and a wealthy countess's son and unsatisfied hunter's apprentice. He broke his knee a half-year and week ago falling from Glen, his chestnut mare, and still skirts around her stable when he goes by. Kind of snobby and angry at everything, but incredibly talented with a knife when out hunting with the Hunter; his master-teacher. Alfred snickers when the Hunter slaps his apprentice for shooting a boar-rabbit protected by the King. The boy screws up his eyes and curses violently, which earns him another hard smack from the bulging canteen. It's not until the master turns around to saddle his horse that Alfred catches his fingers, twitching stiffly around the blade dangling from his belt.

{Really?}, Alfred groans.

This time, however, instead of sinking back into the back room like he often does to hide from the host's stupid mindset, Alfred stays in front and watches. The backlash of watching in front would leave Alfred immobile for a few turns, but he reluctantly hunkers down, rubbing his hands over his where he thought his jeans might be if he had any form, and watches as the boy quietly sharpens the long hunting blades.

Grudgingly, his mind wanders to Kirkland, even though he kind of sort of seriously hates him to hell and shouldn't care at all. What'll the man do to the kid? Spare him? He probably would, the chivalrous wannabe hero. Alfred grumbles, feeling his stone grind along the steel of the axe. Stupid Kirkland and…and his eyebrows. Alfred could do so, so much better. He's American.

Alfred shouldn't even be thinking about him.

"Miss me? Baby miss his mama?" he imagines Arthur spitting. He could see, clearly, the odious little man turning up his nose and scoffing. "Come back when you've learned not to hide behind mummy, coward."

He doesn't _hide_. A hero doesn't _hide_. A spurt of hatred scorches down Alfred's shadowy throat and chokes him up with rage. He killed him last time; the first time he'd killed Kirkland first! He _got_ _control_. And so, despite knowing he only cames out front inside a measly kid, Alfred scrapes even faster at his sword and swears he's going to prove the prick wrong once and for all.

But, as he waits for the boy to finish and commence with his plans, Alfred feels a sharp spike of unease.

How will he convince this kid not to do it?

* * *

"This is ridiculous," Arthur groans, wiping away at his cheek. Outrageous. Sitting on a warm stump in the middle of a sweaty jungle, while Jones is no doubt traipsing across the other half of the country in order to kill and thus take the Hunter's position in the Far council, is hardly how Arthur imagined himself defeating the boy. The host's spoiled childishness might have amused Arthur, considering it fit Jones' disposition oh so well, if he hadn't actually seen the boy grow up to enslave the nation the day before; but he supposes that's just how most dictators began in their childhood.

Kirkland scoffs at one of the giant gold beetles passing by. Damn that Jones. He's probably playing dead deep inside his host, snoring while the host rampaged on the country and raped all the women. Well, he would stop him. Unlike before, Arthur now has the upper hand: intelligence, strength, and skill.

Jones won't make him lose.

* * *

"I won't kill him," Alfred shouts. He claps a hand over his chest, and waits for the swarm of parrots above. "On my word, I'll be a hero!" he declares.

"On my word, on my word, I'll be a hero, hero!" they squawk back.

"And if I don't," Alfred exclaims, listening to them chorus, "I solemnly swear I'll try even harder!"

"Try harder, try harder," they chant back. One thunders down in a rainbow flurry to a rock at his eye level, cocking its bright head at him. For a moment, it looks at Alfred and he stares back into its blank little eyes, waiting.

"You'd better", it croaks. Alfred watches in astonishment as it wings away, gone in an instant; then lets out an almighty curse as the clouds crack apart and begin to pour.

* * *

_Shipwreck in a sea of faces,_

_There's a dreamy world up there_

_Dear Friends, from higher places_

_Carry me, away from here_

- To the Sky by Owl City

* * *

Burrow bear

Brightly bold

Bury bear

Bury bodies.

- Same Paper Titled 'Blah'


End file.
